I Can Try
by thefireascending
Summary: In the struggle to regain her sanity, Grace turns to drink for a night of peace: a rare and seldom prospect. Set roughly after Charles left, although it does not fit completely with the storyline. Copyright allocated to this account.


The fireplace crackles beside me, a low and steady sound amongst the silence. It produces just enough light for me to see, yet never enough to seep in, to enlighten my darkened thoughts and consume me with completion.

I stare at the empty glass in my hand before reaching for another bottle. The liquid spills out, a waterfall of blood against the night, and I soon find myself drinking more than I had intended. But what difference does it make? What difference does anything make anymore?

The answer, as I see it, is much more complicated than anyone would first assume. I cannot decide what is the matter with me. It is as though I am stuck beneath the ocean's surface: too deep to come up for breath, yet not far gone enough to drown. Slowly, I am losing myself within the raging currents, and soon there will be nothing left of me to lose. Perhaps that would be best. Perhaps that would be better for us all, serving as a relief from this numbing existence.

I no longer know. I take another sip of my wine.

The air in the house runs cool, and my jacket does little to cease my shivering. I suppose the drink does not help either, but that's just something I shall have to accept. In the corner of my mind, I hear a whispering. A low rumble of words, strung together in a way that I cannot quite understand. It is only the increasing pressure at the forefront of my brain that reminds me I am alive, that I am coherent and here.

On my wrist, my watch ticks soundlessly. How many hours have I been sitting here? Anne and Nicholas have long been asleep, together in their quaint little room, while I am left to myself. It is a lonely manner of living, and so I choose to ignore it.

"Ma'am?" Mrs Mills' voice travels across the room, and the sudden noise causes a searing ache to develop at my temple. I put a hand to the pain, rubbing in small circular motions. It makes no difference.

"Yes? Do you need me?" Despite my efforts, even I cannot stop the slurring edge to my words.

Mrs Mills eyes the growing pile of empty bottles, brow furrowing with both pity and discontent. She spares a glance my way before saying, "Should you really be drinking this much so late at night?"

"I employed you under the belief that you would be taking care of my children, not me, and so I can assure you that I am fine to do so." I close my eyes for a second as a wave of heat rushes over me. My voice drops to a whisper. "But thank you."

I take a few steadying breaths, yet they bring me no comfort. This house is haunting, and I am sick of living in such darkness. Such despair and quiet agony.

"Grace." The use of my given name causes me to look up. Shapes shift in front of my vision, and I can no longer see straight. Everything is a blur. "Forgive my impertinence, Ma'am, but you look far from fine. Let's get you to bed, shall we?" Her tone is warm and almost motherly, but it does not lack wariness. That much is clear to me, despite my failing senses.

Mrs Mills reaches forward to take the bottle from my hand, but I only tighten my grip. "I said I am fine, thank you." My hand is shaking now. I can feel everything worsening, every little thing. Piling on top of me, leaving no room for air. No room for anything.

Refusing to remove her grasp, Mrs Mills stares down at me. I feel small beneath her gaze, something I am not used to. I have grown strong in my fear, and I've learnt to look after myself. "You know," she says, prying my fingers from the bottle, "people often shut themselves out for a reason."

I say nothing. Instead, I fix my eyes upon the glow of the fire. There is the clatter of bottles and the occasional chime, but soon silence falls once more. Mrs Mills takes the seat beside me, and I hear her take a deep breath. "It gets lonely," I whisper.

I don't know if I intended for her to hear, or if I was simply talking aloud. But she did, and that's what matters now. She looks my way, a sad smile playing upon her lips. "Doesn't it always?"

Fiddling with the strap of my watch, I close my eyes. "I understand you have good intentions, I do. But I don't think you realise. I don't think you realise that I... I am so alone." I breathe out the words as though they are part of me, something I have always carried within my soul.

"You're not alone, Ma'am. You have your children. You have us. We're here to help."

"Can you be so sure?" My tone is rising now. I am sure I must sound mad, but is there ever a time when I do not? "I don't know what to believe anymore. Everyone leaves this damned island, this house. And do you know what the worst part of it is? It's my own fault." And then my voice fractures and I can speak no more. My hand goes to my mouth and I can feel the tears that wish to fall.

Mrs Mills is looking at me intently, but she does not speak quite yet. Perhaps she is waiting for me to finish, or perhaps she just doesn't care. I doubt I would be able to tell. I sit tall, hoping to regain my composure in any possible way, before saying, "Sometimes I look out at the garden, at the path beyond the gate, and none of it feels real. It's as though I am here, but something is wrong. Something is missing, and I can't place it." I take a breath. "Charles left last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Ma'am," Mrs Mills says, straightening a crease in her skirt.

I laugh, but it is bitter. "Me too."

Without much realisation, I find my hand trailing to the table for another bottle, but, of course, I am greeted with an empty worktop. I slip my hand back at my side.

"You won't solve anything with drink, Ma'am," Mrs Mills says.

"I can try."

My words are beyond incomprehensible now, and I do not wish to sit here and suffer. Pushing myself from the chair, arms barely able to hold my weight, I stand. A moment is taken to recollect my balance, but it never returns. "I am going to bed," I mumble. "Good night."

Mrs Mills hastily stands, and I soon realise why. Before I have taken more than three steps, I am unable to go any further. My legs crumple from the pressure and I stagger forwards, clutching the fireplace mantle as though it is all that I have. Black spots parade across my line of sight, dancing to a tune that I can no longer hear.

A single tear slips down my cheek- a mistake on my behalf. For once one tear has fallen, I can no longer reign control over the rest. They fall in cascades, soaking my features. I try to hide behind my palms but it is no use. A faint whimper escapes my lips.

And then Mrs Mills is gathering me in, drawing me close. "It's okay," she ushers, "You're okay now, Ma'am."

I hiccup and wipe at my eyes, but for all the effect it has, I may as well have done nothing. "I'm scared," I whisper.

Mrs Mills strokes my hair with a kindness that I have long missed, and I can't help but feel as though I am undeserving. "I know."

"I'm sorry," I choke out.

She lowers me gently to the floor. "I know."

I rest my head against her chest and close my eyes, absent-mindedly twiddling the hem of her shawl around my fingers. And it is like this that I feel myself drifting, entering the realm that lies between both states:

The living and the dead.


End file.
